Kudos to AspenDragonLord (a guest reviewer) for the prompt.
It was, to both Sherlock and John's surprise, a lovely day; albeit a bit uneventful, but lovely nonetheless. Despite Sherlock's intolerable mood from earlier that morning, John had dragged him out into public and had shown the detective a good time. A bit of coffee, a small walk around London peppered with a bit of conversation, followed by a spot of lunch and another longer walk; it wasn't Sherlock's ideal afternoon, but he enjoyed it.
It was getting considerably dark as the two men were walking back to the flat. The shops were closing up and the streets were starting to empty, save the occasional car passing by.
"How about a cab?" John asked as he checked his wallet. "I think I've got enough cash on me to get us back home.
"It's a short walk. You'll survive."
"It's twenty minutes."
"Yes. Your point being?"
John stopped him in his tracks.
"Sherlock, it's getting to be about six o'clock, and we aren't exactly in the safest area. Not to mention it's bloody freezing outside."
Sherlock sighed.
"I told you to wear your gloves."
"And I told you I don't need them."
"And yet here you are, complaining about brisk weather."
John scowled.
"Look, can we just get a bloody cab already? I'd rather it not be pitch black outside when we arrive home."
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"If you're so desperate to get home in a timely manner, I know a shortcut we can take."
"Yeah. Or, you know, we could be sensible and take a bloody cab."
"You go on ahead if you want one so badly. I'll walk."
In three strides, Sherlock was already walking far ahead of John. The doctor groaned and ran to catch up to the stubborn detective.
"For Christ's sake, Sherlock, I'm not going to leave you to walk alone. No need to be a drama queen."
Sherlock gave a small huff of annoyance.
"By your definition of a "drama queen", I'd say you're more one than I."
John sighed.
"Whatever. You said something about a shortcut."
"Turn here," Sherlock said, making a sharp left into a dark alleyway.
John's stomach did a bit of a somersault as he inhaled the stench that lingered in the alley.
"Can we get through here quickly?" John asked. "I'd rather my lunch not end up on the pavement."
"Lengthen your stride," Sherlock said, quite passively.
"You know very well this is as far apart as my legs can go."
Sherlock shrugged.
"Well, you should have inherited better genetics."
John rolled his eyes.
"You're a piece of work, you know that?"
As the two neared the end of the alleyway, a figure jumped out into the darkness from behind a dumpster.
"Back up," he said.
He sounded young, hardly even twenty, and his voice quavered as he spoke.
"Money. Now. I-I've got a gun."
Sherlock and John looked at each other before looking back at young man.
"I doubt you know how to handle a firearm," Sherlock said, a chuckle almost in the back of his throat.
The young man quaked in his boots.
"I said give me your money. Gun's loaded."
John laughed a bit.
"Oh. Okay. You want money. What for, exactly?"
The youth gulped as he tried to steady his hold on the gun.
"N-none of your business! Just give me your money!"
John held up his hands.
"Alright, alright. Just give me a moment."
"John," Sherlock whispered, "What in God's name do you think you're doing?"
"Once he sees the gun in my pocket, he'll know I have the upper hand. He's just a kid, Sherlock. He's not going to shoot that thing on purpose."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he watched John step closer to the kid.
"Okay, watch me," John said to the young man, slowly opening his jacket. "I'm getting my wallet out. Watch me take it."
John fully opened his jacket, revealing his trusty Browning which lay cozily inside the inside pocket.
As soon as the kid watched John reach for the pocket, he yelped and instinctively fired. Sherlock's eyes widened as he heard the bullet impact with flesh. He whipped his head over to John; the man's face had turned an ashen gray, and he was leaning against the adjacent wall of the alley, clutching his right shoulder which was slowly oozing a dark, dark liquid.
The youth gave a small cry and dropped the gun, the metal clattering on the pavement.
"I'm sorry," he said, sheepishly, before pivoting on his heel and making a dash for it.
Sherlock was about to pursue the lad, but he was stopped by a small moan from the injured doctor.
John was more important at the present moment.
"John!" he cried, breathlessly, as he ran over to his poor companion, catching him before he could fall to the ground. "Excellent plan."
John looked up at the detective, a bit of a glazed look in his eye.
"Told you we should've taken a cab."
Sherlock worked quickly to lay John down and remove his own scarf. He quickly pressed the garment to John's shoulder.
"John, hold this to your shoulder. We need to staunch the blood flow."
John groaned.
"Jesus, I know that! I'm a bloody doctor!"
Sherlock brushed off the latter comment and quickly phoned Lestrade, ordering him to send at least a dozen ambulances to the area.
"Really? Lestrade? Why not 999?" John asked with a bit of an eye roll.
Sherlock returned his hands to the scarf.
"He'll get them here much quicker."
John sighed and looked over at Sherlock's hands; the once ivory skin was now tainted with the doctor's own blood. The metallic smell of it, mixed with the awful stench of the alley made quite an interesting olfactory concoction.
"Sherlock…"
"Shut up. Don't speak."
"I'll have matching wounds, now."
Sherlock gazed sadly at him.
"I know. I'm sorry."
A moment of silence passed.
"It's my fault."
John shifted his gaze to the man currently struggling to keep the life in him.
"Hm?"
"If I had agreed to take a cab home, you wouldn't be lying here."
John laughed half-heartedly.
"No shit, Sherlock."
"Just please don't die as a result of my stubborn nature. That would be a rather dull and inconsiderate thing of you to do. I hardly think I could stand your absence."
John smiled and weakly patted Sherlock's hands.
"S'okay, Sherlock. 'm not gonna die. Sling, maybe. But not gonna die."
Sherlock knitted his brow.
"Your inability to speak coherently is quite discouraging."
John gave him a stern look.
"'m a doctor. I know these things."
"My confidence in your medical knowledge is significantly lower when you're bleeding out on the ground. Talk to me when you're well again. Then my faith in you will be restored."
John nodded sleepily before allowing his eyes to shut completely.
Sherlock could have fainted out of relief when he heard the nearing sound of sirens. They couldn't have come a moment too soon.
Sherlock obediently removed himself from the path of the EMTs as they fumbled with his bleeding companion, keeping a watchful eye over the whole process. If anything went awry, he wanted to be the one to scold the person responsible and to take charge once again. To his dismay, Lestrade was blocking his view, prattling on about statements and the like. Sherlock just pushed the DI out of the way and ran over to where John was being loaded into the back of the ambulance. He slipped past the group and into the ambulance, earning unhappy grunts from the EMTs trying to fumble with the gurney. After a bit of struggling, however, he and the rest managed to pack themselves in. As the medical team bustled about John, Sherlock slipped his hand in the near-unconscious doctor's.
"John, I don't know if you can hear me right now, what with the loud cacophony of noise, but just know that I owe you a cab ride. And I'll be sure to pay the fare."
John opened his eyes a bit and smiled.
"You owe me at least ten."
Sherlock smirked.
"Of course, John."